


On a Deserted Path

by Ravenesta



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It, Helen Lives Because I'm A Sap And You Can't Stop Me, Vaguely-JW1 Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-13 13:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenesta/pseuds/Ravenesta
Summary: Iosef Tarasov comes into his home in the dead of night and takes his peace from him. He works desperately to get it back. He knows he will not be allowed to keep it.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	1. Desert Eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can also [read or share this chapter on tumblr!](https://avecorviidae.tumblr.com/post/189205681978/fic-on-a-deserted-path-chapter-one)

It used to be, that of the two of them, Helen was the early riser.

She liked the stillness of the morning, liked to pad around the house in bare feet, sip coffee by the window as she watched sunlight strain in against the pre-dawn grey. She’d still be there, sitting in an armchair with her feet curled underneath her, when John, an irregular sleeper after years of irregular hours, would finally stumble through into the living room, dropping an absent kiss on her head, stroking a thumb across her jaw.

She’d always smile at his clumsy, sleepy affection, take one of his hands in hers, kiss across his scarred knuckles and tug gently until he bent down to meet her lips, his hair tickling the soft skin of her cheeks and making her nose scrunch against his.

These days—

The alarm beeps at six and John reaches to shut it off quickly, keep it from waking her. She stirs beside him, and he stills, watches as her head shifts on the pillow, but her eyes don’t open, and with a soft sigh, her breathing evens out again. He finds himself captivated by her hair, draped in a soft curtain across the pillow, by the pale column of her throat, unmarked and beautiful.

He’s killed people in their beds before. Left them just like this, curled under their covers with his handprints bruising their necks like a message, a reminder that no walls, no locked doors, could keep him at bay. No home was safe from the Baba Yaga.

He reaches out a hand, brushes her hair behind her ear with two knuckles. She sighs again, breath soft against his wrist. She’s so _alive. _

He hovers a moment longer, but eventually stands, the floor cold against the soles of his feet. He has days like this, sometimes. When he wakes up and he’s a different person, five years stretched thin like a dream and he’s walking through his own house like a hunter, shoulder against the bedroom door as he silently presses it open like there might be someone behind it.

The silence echoes around him as he treads a well-worn path through the house, makes a brief stop at the thermostat to turn it up a couple of degrees, glances outside. It’s damp and grey out, drops of drizzle spattering against the windows and grumbling dark clouds far above that threaten to break into a full-blown storm. John starts as the heating clicks on, begins the slow work of fighting back the pervasive New York chill.

He’s methodical and quick in the kitchen, thumbing on the coffee machine, setting two slices of bread to toast, retrieving Helen’s mug from the rack by the sink. Finds a glass, too, ice, then water. Pour the coffee, spread the toast with peanut butter. She’ll wrinkle her nose at it, won’t eat more than a couple of bites, but it’s all she’s keeping down right now, and she always eats a little more when he’s watching her, when she can laugh at the worry tight in his throat that must show on his face. He sets the plate, the mug, and the glass on a tray, returns to the bedroom, sets it down on her bedside table gently. Is back a moment later with the pill caddy from the bathroom, which joins the spread on the tray.

He sits on the edge of the bed beside her, leans down to cup her cheek in one palm and kisses her softly, starts pressing kisses along the line of her jaw, and by the time his lips are against her ear he knows she’s awake, can feel the stretch of her smile on his skin, and she hums, leans into his hand.

“Helen,” he murmurs, voice rough, always rough on mornings like this, with some magnitude of awe that doesn’t fit in a body like his, with some kind of fear that always threatens to overtake him.

“John,” she replies, eyes still closed, but she leans up, presses her nose to his cheek, nuzzles against him. She complains about his beard, sometimes, smiling as she scratches fingernails through his _scruff, _but she won’t let him shave it. _How else are you supposed to tickle me awake every morning, huh? _

He pulls away and she follows him, slowly sitting up, leaning forward to let him prop up a pillow behind her. He’s never felt good at this, at the soft touches and the gentle coaxing, but he tries, rubs his thumb in circles on her thigh as she chokes down a few bites of toast, chases it with the coffee. He never needs to ask; they both know that the alternative is worse, taking the pills on an empty stomach just to throw them up ten minutes later. She takes them two at a time, follows them with gulps of water, and once they’re all gone, she starts chugging coffee, politely ignores the eyebrow he raises at her until she’s finished the mug off.

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly, taking the mug from her hands, setting it aside. She tilts her head, considering, cataloguing her hurts. She smiles, curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulls his nose to hers. “The body is sated,” she tells him, matter-of-fact. “The mind demands affection.”

He feels his lips curl in response, always happy with a demand, always happy to comply. He lets her drag him back into the bed, lies alongside her and kisses her lazily, trails fingertips down her side, lets them creep up her shirt to stroke the soft skin of her hip. She threads her own fingers through his hair, nails across his scalp, and even after all this time it is so _strange _to be held gently, touched without intention to hurt, and it makes him drug-hazy, slow and soft in her arms. She’s blinking heavily, dropping her head to rest on his chest, and he curls his arms around her, splays a hand on her back and watches it rise and fall with her breaths until he’s drifting off as well, as outside, it begins in earnest to rain.

* * *

He’s cooking, when someone knocks on the door.

Helen had asked for eggs, sunny side up, and he’d been far too enthused about the return of her appetite to tease her about the sudden craving, had immediately made for the kitchen to get some oil heating in a pan.

He glances up from the stove, frowns in the direction of the hall. “Little late for company,” he says, blinking.

Helen hops up from her barstool, brushes a kiss against his cheek on her way to the kitchen door. “I’ll go see who it is,” she tells him, but she’s smiling, eyes glittering with a secret she’ll not give up until she’s good and ready to. “Come to the living room, when the eggs are done?”

“Mm,” he responds, distant. He keeps his head cocked as he plates the eggs, one ear out in the hall, tuned to the familiar lilt of Helen’s voice, the distinct but indecipherable hum of a stranger’s. He hears Helen laugh, then a rustling of papers, a shuffling and scraping that he can’t quite make sense of. He’d–

She had teased him, when they’d first met, about the way he hovered. The way he clung to her shadows, watched over her shoulder like a hound at its master’s heels. _It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, _Marcus had said, a thousand years and a lifetime ago as he systematically pulled mics out of the lights in their hotel room. She’d trained him out of it, as best as anyone could hope to train a beast out of its own teeth, but the worst of himself had returned in the wake of her sickness, the need to watch, to check, to _know, _and he’s tense and wary until he hears the door close, the sound of a vehicle retreating down their driveway, Helen’s footsteps in the hallway.

He steps softly into the living room a moment later, plate in one hand and cutlery in the other, and stops short when he spots the dog.

It’s just a little thing, tiny paws scrabbling on Helen’s shoulders as it strains up to lick at her face, tail wagging hard enough to shake its body, and Helen’s laughing at it, scratching her fingers across its flank. The dog knows her, he would guess, from how excited it is to see her, from how delighted she is to see it.

They had talked about this, some. When Helen had been at her worst, more in the hospital than out, John spending more nights than not folded into a plastic chair at her bedside, two fingers perpetually on her wrist, perpetually failing to be placated by the beeping of the EKG, only trusting the steady beat of her heart against his skin. She hadn’t wanted him to be alone.

_I’m not alone. You’re right here._

_But when I’m not?_

_Don’t—please, don’t leave me._

It was their compromise. Either her body would pull through, or it would give up. A companion to see them through the recovery, or save John in the aftermath. Either way, the dog meant that it was all over.

The test results hadn’t been due for another week.

John sets the plate gently on the table. Helen looks up at him, and beams.

“Would you like to meet Daisy, John?”

He thinks that he would, very much.

He sits on the sofa tentatively, watches Daisy watching him. She’s got bright little eyes, _clever girl, _floppy, shiny ears, and they’re twitching as she scouts him from the safety of Helen’s lap. Slowly, he raises a hand towards her, knuckle-first, lets her press a wet, snuffling nose to his skin. A moment later she’s lunging forwards, scrabbling on trembling legs into his lap, tiny claws digging into his thighs and soft fur between his fingers as she worms her way under his hands. He strokes her head, runs fingers over her glossy ears, scratches under her chin, cannot quite place the oddness clenching in his chest. When he settles one hand across her back, he can feel her tiny heart beating, the rise and fall of her chest shaking her entire body with each breath.

Helen has taken advantage of her newly-freed hands and started digging into her dinner, appetite apparently not forgotten in the wake of all the excitement, but she’s watching him over her plate when John meets her eyes, all warmth for the two of them, her hounds.

There will be things to be done, and they’re already pulling at the back of John’s mind, the minute practicalities that will become a necessity, food and chew toys and making sure there are no wires or shoes within reach of little teeth. It’s late, but they’ll go out for supplies tomorrow morning, first thing after Helen’s up. For now—

Daisy has settled herself across his thighs, comfortable under all of the attention, and John keeps one hand spread on her flank, gives the other to Helen, who takes it, presses lips to knuckles that are faded and smooth, that haven’t been split open and battered against skin and bone for five years and change. Outside, the storm beats against the windows, coming in fits and bursts, but the curtains are drawn and John is warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> named after [the post-rock instrumental album](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLssDSxPeZM) i've been listening to while writing this, which has dope wick vibes.
> 
> come find me @subcorax on tumblr or @corvidax on twitter!


	2. Stevie Slimm in a Bloody Mood

It’s Daisy that wakes them that night, squirming out of her nook between them and jumping off the bed with a whine.

John had kept vague ideas about her having a bed on the floor, the first night, _no dogs on the furniture _half-remembered from somewhere, someone else’s rules in his head. The next morning, he was woken by insistent puppy licks across his face, Helen grinning at the two of them drowsily as he tried to push Daisy gently off his chest.

She had slotted effortlessly into their morning routine, trotting at his heels through the house, taking care of her own business outside while John made breakfast, licking toast crumbs off of Helen’s fingers and sniffing curiously at their coffee. She curled herself snugly between them when they went back to bed, nose resting on Helen’s arm while her tail thwapped a happy beat on John’s.

John blinks over at his alarm clock, _3:00 AM _blinking back at him. In the doorway, Daisy yips. Helen rolls over into the empty space she left, hums a wordless question against John’s shoulder.

“Dog probably needs to go,” he mumbles to her. “I’ll let her out.”

He stands slowly, scrubs a hand across his face, muzzily follows the distant sound of Daisy’s little claws against the floor down the hallway. The living room is dark, full of drawn shadows, and—

he’s not alone—

pain flares, a crack across the back of his head—ears ringing, can’t see, dog’s whining, he might’ve shouted—

“John? What’s—”

Helen, can’t see, dog’s whining, it’s the voices that are barking, Russian comes back slowly—

_“—the fucking keys, man—”_

blinking up at a face blinking down at him, gritty motherfucker, dog’s whining, he tries to call out, low animal groan in his throat, Helen’s voice high and _scared—_

_“—not gonna fucking kill the bitch—”_

_“Jesus, got that shit, let’s go—”_

the mind spins but the body remembers, he’s on his knees, blinking spots, black hoodies black guns, a muzzle trained at Helen’s head, shiny tears streaking, dog’s whining, puddle at their feet on the floor, _dog probably needs to go, _jingling keys, barking Russian,

_“Fucking hey, shit—”_

English, accent harsh, frantic hands,

“Stay down, motherfucker—”

a push, a kick,

_“Night-night, bitch.”_

Black boot over his head, and—

* * *

Together, they clean up the mess.

Maybe that’s not the done thing, maybe in another house, another life, they’d be calling the police, going to an emergency room, calling friends or family, holding each other. But stillness is untenable, miserable, and he is shaking apart on the sofa, bleeding sluggishly into his hair, and Helen is close at his side, her hand gripping white-knuckled around his, and after maybe ten minutes of staring at the bloodstains on the floor she stands with purpose, makes for the hall closet, returns with a mop and bucket and a bottle of bleach.

He understands. The path of carnage is gouged through their house like a crack through marble, gaping and glaring and unbearable, and he stumbles towards the kitchen to track down a brush, knows the blood will have seeped into the cracks between floorboards by now, will need to be scrubbed out. Trash bag for the smashed vase, gently nudge Daisy back as he picks up the bigger pieces, keep her from stepping on shards. She’s skittish, still, clinging to his heels, nose cold against his ankles, sometimes darting between him and Helen with a whine. He bends down to pick her up, holds her little body close to his chest, tries to let the warmth of her soothe him.

He follows Helen out to the garage, trash bags in hand, feels her stop short at his side. The Mustang is gone, of course. Helen’s practical little work car has a baseball bat through the windshield. She takes one look at it and begins to cry.

“Jesus,” she hisses, breath hiccupping against his chest, tears soaking hot through his shirt. “I’m not—I don’t even care about the car. I didn’t even like it. It’s just.”

It’s not the car. Of course it’s not the car. John knows. He could give less of a shit about the Mustang. Loved it, yes, put his time and sweat and blood into every stitch of the thing, let Aurelio work some dark magic on the engine until she’d purred just how they both liked, but when it came right down to it, if he’d managed to crash it beyond repair, if some streak of divine vengeance had taken it out in a freak fire, he’d have lived. Shit, if those little punks had just nabbed the keys and left without a trace—

But they came into his _home, _violenced it, _violated _it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here.

* * *

Helen falls into a tentative sleep, propped up against the headboard of their bed. They’d retreated to the bedroom, after a while, locked the door behind them and curled around each other in bed. They had taken turns getting up now and again to jig the handle, check, fulfill their mutual paranoia. He’d wondered if Helen would sleep at all, watching the door with hollow eyes, shaking with fine tremors, but eventually she drifted, shuddering breaths evening out against his shoulder. Not used to this kind of adrenaline, of course, and with her body recovering anyways, it had pulled her under.

He doesn’t sleep. He feels his mind walking familiar paths, shadows that he’d thought to shed clinging to his shoulders like a well-worn cloak, and he considers the kid, black hoodie blue eyes, barked Russian from the gas station. Bratva, obviously. Had something of the Tarasovs about him, in the jaw, the set of his mouth. One of Abram’s boys, maybe, or Viggo’s.

He hasn’t seen Iosef in years, met him only briefly. The boy was raised in Vladivostok, kept close to the family in the homeland, but he’d be the right age now to be brought into the fold. Viggo never spoke fondly of him.

_Spoiled, that boy. Never learned respect._

Despite what Winston liked to think, John had held a certain reverence for the Arrangement, its manners, its rules. For all that it had felt like putting a suit on a beast and calling it a man, John had been carefully taught its etiquette, learned to move in its spaces, speak its languages. He had trusted it, to an extent. Had served it and been served by it, had been released by it, protected by it, by the respect that it held for a declaration of peace, an intention to retire quietly, live unobtrusively on the fringes. To be struck without having struck first, violation without provocation, is—

To use the _lingua franca, _he is feeling fairly fucking _disrespected._

In his mind’s eye, he opens the door at the end of the hall, carefully descends to the basement. Stands barefooted on the concrete, imagines that he can feel the weight of the cache below, an unmarked grave.

It had felt unreachable, in these long freedom years. Miles and miles and lives and lives away, a scar that had healed faint and white, gone unless you knew where to look. Now, it writhes and scratches beneath his feet, groans and shrieks with the closeness. Take a sledgehammer in the hand, wood grain rough on the palm. A few good blows would do it. It’s barely a foot down. It always has been.


End file.
